


Surfacing

by doctornerdington



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Art History, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff and Smut, M/M, Remix
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-24
Updated: 2014-02-24
Packaged: 2018-01-13 16:13:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,331
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1232938
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doctornerdington/pseuds/doctornerdington
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A depressed Bond returns to London following his "death" in Istanbul. His first meeting with his new quartermaster proves entirely surprising.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Surfacing

**Author's Note:**

> Huge thanks to christyimnotred for the encouraging beta read-throughs.

James Bond’s flesh was virginal in no sense of the word. Sex aside, he’d been shot and stabbed so many times that the body-shock of adrenalin, the blazing pain of tearing flesh – none of it was foreign to him. It was simply the part of his job he liked the least. 

Istanbul, though, Istanbul had been different: a chest-shot, and clean through. More a death than a wound, and no way he could see to recover. He couldn’t remember the fall into the icy water, small mercy, but he remembered the submersion. Remembered looking up at the sky through rippling waves, fighting his body: don’t breathe. Not yet. Not yet. 

After that, things got a bit hazy. 

All he knows is that when he woke up, much later, miraculously dry and bandaged in a tiny Turkish hospital, he hadn’t been the same. It was as if he’d never resurfaced from those freezing depths at all, as if he was looking at everything through surface ripples, ears muffled, skin numb with cold. 

His body had grown strong again. Resumed its usual habits and appetites. But somehow, he stood apart from it, and all the booze and sex and Aegean sun he could find did nothing at all to heal him. The drink made the world as far removed from him as he was from it; in that, it served a purpose. The women, too, they numbed like the drink, but in the end it had been just him, reflected back to himself, endlessly, in some grotesque simulacrum of desire. And he was so tired of his own bloody self. 

* * * * *

He had thought that perhaps his return to London (inevitable), and to the work (even more so) might jolt him out of it. Bond was the work; without it? Just drink and endless, empty fatigue. But his field placement tests had been painful, marksmanship particularly. How to explain that he was still underwater, shooting through refracted light, body clumsy with cold? How to articulate the subtle dampening of the world? He couldn’t, really – not even if he wanted to. Which he didn’t. Especially not to the agency headshrinkers. Professional games-players, all. 

Finally, Bond had completed the painfully protracted process of returning to active duty; any urgency solely a byproduct of old habits. The final step in the process was, he knew, being matched to his new quartermaster and being kitted out for fieldwork. He felt almost no curiosity as he received his rendez-vous instructions; didn’t even read the message until he was out of the training centre. Thought only to leave, to be alone. 

* * * * *

Bond dodged the crowds of tourists and pigeons in Trafalgar square, strolled up the steps and through the pillars guarding the front of the National Gallery. Whose idea had this joke of a rendez-vous location been, he wondered? Just whimsical enough; he thought he saw the light touch of M herself. No patience for whimsy; he passed quickly through the entrance hall, the Antrep mosaic under his feet dizzily proclaiming: “Compassion! Curiosity! Defiance! Profane love!” A compendium of things out of reach. Bond smiled, slightly. Grimly. Checked his watch. 45 minutes to rendezvous. Christ. This was not him, was it? Where was his precision? Bond had never been so careless as to telegraph a rendez-vous location in advance, but he couldn’t find it in himself to care much. 

And so, instead of standard-procedure maneuvers designed to throw any (surely non-existent) tails off his scent, he wandered aimlessly through the rooms, stopping occasionally to look vaguely at a familiar painting before moving on. Art. He used to like it, didn’t he? Something robust – was it Leighton? He could barely remember anymore. Tourists held some entertainment, but Bond felt at sea here. Drifting away. In no mood for crowds, he skirted the tourist-filled Van Gogh rooms, recalled the location of the Rembrandt self-portrait and moved, instead, in the opposite direction. There were fewer people milling about in the far rooms; he made for one of the more obscure galleries at the back of the building. Thought he might relax, for a time, before the meet up. Finding a bench, Bond surveyed the room, by rote. An American couple were on their way out, having taken a wrong turn on their way to the Sunley Room. Two students passed through, sketchbooks in hand. A guard swept through on her rounds. Time ticked ever on. Bond sighed, rubbed his face. 

When he looked up again, a boy had strolled into the room, was making a slow circuit. Bond took note of his features, clothing, mannerisms -- professional habit. Medium height, slender build. Dark cloud of curls, pale face, thick-framed glasses. Exceptionally well dressed, leaning smartly away from trendy. Leisurely demeanor. Observant glance. After a few moments, he noticed, idly, that his eyes were following the boy’s progress with more attention than was strictly necessary. There was something about him, his posture so perfectly upright, and at the same time, so knowing. Made it hard to look away as he squinted quizzically at one painting, quickly appraised the next. Bond wondered, idly, what he was seeing. All colour on canvas to him. The boy’s absorption in it, though, it was beautiful. He realized he had been staring only when the boy suddenly turned and caught his eye. The boy raised his eyebrows, slightly, smiled a little, and turned back to his painting. Such a smile, Bond thought, his gaze unwavering. A wry little twist of lips warring with wary optimism in the eyes. Bond felt a pinprick of surprise at himself: he wanted to see that smile again. He considered himself an equal-opportunity sensualist, and years ago, he would have been up in a heartbeat, taking his best shot at that beautiful boy. Not ‘boy,’ he corrected himself. Though youthful, there was nothing boyish in his air of self-composed intelligence. Beautiful man, then. Bond felt a stir of longing, as if from a great distance. For the man. For himself. This game, he thought wearily. He didn’t know if he had it in him anymore. 

He watched the man make leisurely circles around the room; pausing at different paintings each time, examining minute details with those soft, quick eyes. He seemed drawn to the wall Bond himself was facing. Each time he passed behind the bench on which he was seated, Bond fancied he came a little closer, lingered a little longer. Possibly, his imagination. Possibly not.

The next time around, he didn’t pass by at all, but remained standing behind Bond. Looking at the painting Bond was ostensibly fascinated with himself, he supposed. Except that Bond felt eyes on him now, and he trusted his instincts enough to know that this was no fancy. He knew the feeling of professional observation, illicit surveillance: all of this was integral to his work. This gaze felt different. The man was standing behind him, watching. With interest. Bond could almost feel his breath on the nape of his neck. A faint rustle behind him, a voice barely-breathed, “lovely.” So quiet in this room, so still. And then, the man moved off again, to complete another circuit.

A few minutes later, he was back. This time, the man sat down beside him. Uncharacteristically indecisive, Bond went with his best British pretense at solitary contemplation, and turned his eyes to the painting in front of them. Surely he’d be off in a moment or two – what could the man be looking for in… the Fighting Temeraire? Really? Hmm. Bond leaned forward. He knew this painting – had known it. And yes, the ship was there, a pinpoint of focus in the swirling colours. Bond hadn’t even noticed it.

Startling Bond out of his contemplation, the man beside him began to speak. “Always makes me feel a little melancholy. A grand old warship being ignominiously hauled away for scrap.” The plosive consonant left his lips in slow motion; Bond, surprised, found himself dragging his eyes back up to meet the man’s. That mouth, though. “The sun setting on Britain’s age of victory – the inevitability of time, don’t you think?” he continued. “What do you see?”

Bond paused. 34 minutes to rendezvous. “A bloody big ship. Excuse me.”

The man shrugged: “If you like. Don’t let me chase you off.” His glance lingered; moved up and down his body, once. Appraisingly. Bond knew that look; had used it himself. Rarely had it turned on him. It made him… interested. He hadn’t been – interested – in a very long time. The man’s gaze returned to Bond’s face with a coy shadow of a smile. Oh, he was pretty. Bond didn’t bother to attempt subtlety; watched as the man placed his rucksack on the ground at his feet and settled in, legs crossed demurely, chin in hand, and examined the painting as if reuniting with an old friend. Seemed to be settling in for a long haul; some kind of art student? Bond frowned. He’d need to clear the area. He was just preparing to suggest another Turner the man might find more interesting -- The Bridgewater Sea Piece was just down the hall, much more dynamic, youthfully exciting -- when a dangling foot gently brushed Bond’s leg. So very subtle; could have been an accident. Was certainly not. 

“It’s lovely, though. Achingly. That ship transcends the scrapyard. Look at it now – a century and a half later, and we’re still admiring it.” 

Bond grimaced. “Closer to two, I think,” he replied. 

The man shrugged. “Turner’s brushwork is precisely judged, but you can’t see it in the reproductions,” he continued. “The sunset looks like rippling waves; you think it’s indistinct. But in the flesh, so to speak, it’s so very deliberate. Light, and loose. But deliberate, every stroke.” 

Bond glanced at the painting again – really looked, this time. The man was right. The indistinct ripples resolved themselves into measured strokes. It took close attention, that was all.

“There’s been some speculation lately that Turner’s grand elegy to a dying age is quite the opposite, you know. Look at the boats. They’re sailing the Thames upstream – westwards. Do you see?” 

Bond blinked in sudden recognition. “It’s a sunrise.” The pair sat in silence for a while. Admiring.

Delicately, the man cleared his throat. Bond sat motionless, deliberating. Surprise, so rare and precious now, warred with duty. 30 minutes to rendez-vous. The offer was there, unmistakably. He could have both. He always had, hadn’t he? 

The man was smiling at the painting. Bond felt another light nudge, slightly higher on his leg. What the hell, he thought. It had been a long time, and this gentle, frank interest was entirely charming.

Two can play at this game, Bond thought. Leaned in close to the man’s ear, lightly grazing the wild mop curls. “You seem parched,” he murmured. Curls as soft as they looked. Smell: distinctly masculine. He withdrew to a seemly distance again, though the hall was nearly empty. “Perhaps I can interest you in a brief stroll? Coffee? There’s a guardsman’s pantry off the next hall. Not for the public — quite deserted. For a dedicated art patron, though, exceptions would be made.” Bond found himself poised, anticipating. Hoping.

The man half-turned. Blinked up through dark lashes. That coy smile was back. “Ah. I’m told I’m often an exception.” He stood, shouldered his rucksack. “Lead on.”

It took less effort than Bond expected to rise to his feet, to lead this man through the empty room, the corridor suddenly swarming with tour groups. The quiet of the gallery gave way to a sudden press of tourists in the corridor. As the tour group pushed around them, the man crowded closer to Bond’s back; close enough that Bond could feel his body heat behind him. He did not turn to take his hand, pull him closer, but reflexes are reflexes, and it was a near thing.

Finding a quieter hall adjoining, Bond led them to a nondescript door marked “Guards Only.” With a quick glance around, Bond took a pen from his jacket pocket, and opened it to reveal a tiny lockpick. The man quirked an eyebrow, but made no comment, other than to rest his hand lightly, briefly, at the small of Bond’s back. It felt proprietary; surprising himself, Bond warmed to it. Slowed his work with the door. Leaned in. Slightly. They stood for a moment. The warmth didn’t fade when the man dropped his hand. And then, the simple lock popped open under Bond’s hands, and they were in, standing, facing each other, in a cramped, dark pantry. Neither moved; each studied the other in the dim light leaking through the doorframe. The tight quarters had them in each other’s space already; aside from a sink, fridge, and tiny countertop, there was barely room for the two men to stand. The smell of disinfectant and stale tea pervaded. Bond had little idea what to expect of this encounter; knew what he wanted, but not the parameters of the exchange. What could this man want from him? 

Unused to this uncertainty – almost a flutter in his abdomen, what was that? – Bond waited, watched. Didn’t wait long; the man barely had to turn his head in the small space to reach towards Bond’s. “Upon reflection,” he murmured into his ear, “I’m not at all thirsty.” 

“Are you not?” Mock-serious, Bond asked, “Is there anything else I can help you with?” 

“Oh, I do hope so,” the man replied, lowering his voice as tourists passed outside. “I don’t know you at all, of course, but I believe you can. I’ve thought so since I saw you, sitting there like the Fighting Temeraire, not seeing yourself at all.” He moved in closer now, as close as two bodies could be without touching at all. “I’m going to kiss you now,” he whispered. 

“That,” replied Bond under his breath, “is the best idea I’ve heard since I came back from the dead.” Curious eyes darted up to Bond’s – and Bond had the feeling that those eyes rarely missed anything. The man refrained from comment, however, and refocused quickly on Bond’s mouth. So deliciously near. Without changing position, without touching him anywhere else, he moved in on Bond, kissed upper, then lower lip with feather-light touches. Not tentative, but preliminary, a first taste. 

Bond grabbed the man by the collar, pulled that vexing mouth in close. Enough teasing. Teasing was ordinary. This, he was rather beginning to suspect, was not. A quick yank brought him near enough to smell: traces of his morning shower, lemon, basil, bergamot. Christ, he was as bright and sharp as a G&T. Bond dipped in, took a long draught. 

Glasses pulled off, to the countertop. “Careful,” the boy scolded. “Designer.” Bond rolled his eyes, pulled him in again against his chest. It had been some time since Bond had been with a man, though this was far from his first encounter, and he gave himself over to the novelty of it, that hard, flat chest pressed against his, the slight rasp of stubble against his cheeks. 

Only jagged breaths broke the silence, kisses turning harder. Anchoring hands on waists, ribs, chests, became kites, sweeping across cheeks, through hair. Bond suddenly broke away. “Christ, I don’t even know your name, and here, we’re… well. What can I call you?” 

Instead of answering, the man nosed up under Bond’s jaw. “Talk later, yes? I’m more interested in other things just now.” And he licked up over Bond’s chin and lips, insistently into his mouth. Bond got the message: this conversation did not involve words. He opened to him, deeply. Tongues more eloquent, anyway, and bodies so much more articulate. 

They were grinding together now, hot and dirty. Bond pushed the younger man back into the wall, so used to leading, his body’s every whim immediately gratified. He wasn’t prepared for the forceful shove back, the thigh thrust high between his own as the man arched, using the wall for leverage to push back, to press closer to Bond. Chest to chest, body to body, the man nipped at his throat, bit harder at his jaw, ground against him, maddeningly. Bond took advantage of the space behind the man’s back to wedge his hands in and down, to pull him closer.

His body so young; so slight. Bond would almost have let himself believe untried, but for that wry twist to his lips; those knowing eyes. “Christ,” Bond whispered, hands nearly spanning his waist. “You practically still have spots.”

“My complexion is hardly relevant,” the man replied, panting. He thrust again against Bond’s hip, hot and hard, and not remotely boyish. 

“Well, your competence is.” Bond thrust back.

“Manners! Age is no guarantee of efficiency,” he gasped into Bond’s hair as he nipped at that long, beautiful throat. “Harder, please. Harder.”

“And youth is no guarantee of innovation, evidently,” Bond replied wryly, dropping a hand to the man’s rutting hips. 

The boy snorted. “I’m not hearing any complaints.” This time, he aligned his hips to Bond’s, pressing his desire into Bond’s own bulge. Bond was used to soft, curving, pliant lovers – nearly gasped at this jarring evidence of difference. This man was hard and without curves, all angles and lines. He did not offer comfort; this was not oblivion. 

Bond slipped his hand under the snug band at that impossibly slender waist; palmed the other man’s groin. Hard and pulsing, through thin cotton drawers, drawn enticingly taut. He loved the lack of pretense that led to this. Naked desire was a beautiful thing, and though he had often been desired, it had rarely been so stripped of artifice. “Let me see you,” he murmured, sounding more like a plea than he intended. The man exhaled into his neck. “Not yet. I want more of this first.”

He shifted, pressing his mouth against Bond’s ear, raising goose bumps. “I love this part,” he whispered. 

This man, Bond thought, taken aback. He thought he’d known the rules to this game, but now he wondered if the other man had even been playing. As a wicked tongue licked again up his throat, though, Bond stopped thinking altogether, abandoned any attempt to take the lead, and simply submitted to his body’s pleasure, to this man’s agenda. What had been kisses became open-mouthed bites, pressure just this side of too much. Bond groaned into it, then pulled back, around, nosed curls out of the way and took an earlobe between his teeth. Felt a chuckle shake the man’s chest. Bond’s hand, trapped half inside of the man’s trousers, kept up a relentless rhythm as they explored each other; scent, taste. Touch.

At last, the man relented, drew back slightly, reached down to undo his flies. With a wiggle of slim hips, his trousers fell entirely away. On his own terms, he revealed himself. That cock, thought Bond, is poetic. A willowy and profane synecdoche for the man himself. Deceptive, delicate strength. Bond took him in his big, blunt hand and relished the gasp puffed against his throat. Gently, so gently, he began a rhythmic stroke. Quickly, the man echoed his rhythm with his hips, thrusting so energetically that Bond was forced to brace himself, to tighten his grip. “Yessss,” the man hissed softly. “Harder. Tighter.” Minutes, days, Bond didn’t know. “Oh god, I’m there…” and he spilled, milky white and burning hot, over Bond’s fingers. 

The man collapsed against Bond’s chest, face pink, chest heaving. It was a lovely thing to see. Bond raised his hand for a surreptitious wipe. Lightning quick, a hand shot out and grabbed his wrist. The man brought Bond’s hand up to his face, held it between them. His eyes bored into Bond’s as his tongue darted out, lapped the mess as delicately as he did everything else. Imp. Leaned in and kissed Bond again, long and deep. 

Finally, the man leaned back and sighed, a blissful, post-coital languor lasting all of 7 seconds — the damn cheek of youth. 

Now, quick eyes darted to Bond’s straining trousers. “I’d like to do something about that, if I may?”

With a grunt, Bond pulled him in, but he resisted; dropped instead to his knees before him. “I have plans, you understand.” Glanced up archly through those perfect lashes. 

Bond swore he could feel the younger man’s breath through his trousers, even before he leaned in and nuzzled, mouthed. 

"I just want to know you,” he murmured against him.

He took his time about it, Bond gave him that. Didn’t even open his trousers for what felt like ages, just nuzzled, cat-like, breathed him in, luxuriated in the act without rushing forward. Bond wished, now, that he had a wall to support him. Felt himself start to weave, already, and the damn kid didn’t even have his cock out yet. Blindly, he reached forward, bracing himself against the wall with strong arms, keeping that glorious body within the circle of his. Hot, damp breath the only pressure on his cock, now, as the man pulled back slightly. Hair wild. Bond wanted to dig his fingers into it and yank. “I’ve wondered since I saw you on the bench,” he whispered. “What do you look like? What do you taste like,” he added, “when you come?” 

Silently, Bond shifted his weight, to undo his flies. The man batted his hands away; nimble fingers tracing agonizing patterns up and down his trousers. He was smiling faintly. “I like to take my time.” 

“Wouldn’t have thought so, a minute ago.”

“Cheek! I was just getting that out of the way,” he whispered, looking up smugly, “so I could take my time with this.” 

Slowly, slender fingers undid Bond’s flies, and pushed the straining fabric back and down. Bond was bare, at last, and the man rocked back on his heels to take a long, long look. Bond could almost feel his eyes; his cock bobbed like it had been touched, raising, impossibly, higher against his belly. His arms strained against the wall as he struggled to keep still, to prolong the silent intensity of this man’s attention. Finally, the man moved in, a repeat of his earlier snuffling nuzzles, breathing and breathing and breathing him in. Bond almost didn’t notice the transition to an open mouth, to delicate, long swipes of tongue. No suction – not that satisfaction yet – but warm, wet, comfortable laps, occasional delicious detours around the head, deeper swipes at the base. As if he had all the time in the world to learn every inch of him. A hand came up, gently tugged his balls. Even that, inquisitive: measuring reactions to slight gradations of pressure. The sound of ragged, wet breaths. The smell of bodies, the smell of lust. 

The strain of keeping still, of watching, increased until Bond was almost at his breaking point. Finally, finally, he took him in his mouth, shallowly at first, but deeper, and more rhythmically as Bond groaned his relief. 

At last, he plunged down, took all of Bond deep into his throat. Bond barely managed to stifle his voice, but he rocked his hips forward, quickly. Couldn’t help it. And the man moved with him; didn’t flinch, grabbed his hips and sucked him deeper, harder, faster. Grabbed his arse and squeezed, mashed into him, couldn’t get closer. Bond wondered how he was still breathing, or would have, if he had been able to think anything at all. But that mouth gave no quarter, and thinking was not currently a possibility. 

Again and again, Bond drove himself deep into his mouth; again and again, the man pushed back, taking all he had, then taking more. Their heated breaths the only sound in the tiny room, growing faster, tenser, louder as Bond’s hips thrust savagely forward, as nails scraped welts in Bond’s arse. “Oh Christ,” Bond whispered, warmth turning to fire from his belly through all his limbs. “Jesus, God. Oh fuck…” Bond could feel it coalescing in his body, he wanted it with everything he was. The man released a hand from his arse, pulled back and landed a stinging slap to his rear. And again. Bond curled nearly double as his orgasm shook him, toes curling, hands clinging, teeth sinking into the man’s shoulder as he swallowed and swallowed him down. 

Slowly, Bond uncurled enough to slump to the floor. Turned, slightly, to prop himself up against the wall as the man settled back beside him, arms just touching. He was still breathing hard, was covered in a thin sheen of sweat. Reached over, and pulled the man against him. He felt absolutely wrecked; could not even imagine himself sat in this pantry with a stranger, trousers down, smelling of come. Glowing and warm. He looked at the man beside him. His eyes were directed at the opposite wall, but unfocussed. He was smiling faintly, licking his lips. Bond cleared his throat. “Well. That was…” 

“Revelatory?” 

“Revelatory,” he pondered. Perhaps. He checked his watch. 

4 minutes. He’d just make the rendez-vous. If only he could make himself move. 

He allowed himself another minute’s relaxation. Shared breath. Bergamot. Lovely and warm. 3 minutes. 

He stirred. “I’m afraid I have to –”

The man cut him off with an unsettlingly businesslike glance. “007. I’m your new Quartermaster. Pleased to make your acquaintance.” And the cheeky bugger grinned.

Bond froze. “You must be joking.”

He closed his eyes for a moment; felt the man – Q, apparently – tense, uncertainly, against him. The icewater shock of being so blindsided passed, leaving his body loose. He felt… invigorated. Bond considered. Gave a quiet chuckle. M was going to kill him. Suddenly he threw back his head and laughed, cleanly, like he hadn’t since long before Istanbul. 

“…Bond?”

“Brave new world, Q. Brave new world.”

* * *

30 minutes later, Bond trotted down the grand staircase, crossed the hall to the exit, re-crossing the mosaic on his way out. Paused briefly, considering, before shrugging slightly, and continuing on his way. One man’s profanity, another man’s salvation.

**Author's Note:**

> Q's thoughts on the Fighting Temeraire are borrowed from a terrific essay by Simon Schama. See:  
> www.newyorker.com/arts/critics/artworld/2007/09/24/070924craw_artworld_schama?currentPage=4r
> 
> If you enjoyed this, you might like to check out the follow-up story, Oral Fixation:  
> http://archiveofourown.org/works/1375864


End file.
